The Treasure's Heiress
by Princess Lelda
Summary: Tabitha, a young well-to-do woman in the Caribbean, loses her most precious posession and must employ the help of everyone's favorite pirate captain, Jack Sparrow, to get it back.
1. The greatest treasure known to man

Hello and greetings unto all! Wow, I haven't actually written a fanfic in forever. But it's finals week here at college, and I really don't want to study, so here I am. That and the fact I just watched Pirates last night, and I can't get Jack out of my head ^_^ Anyways, be patient with this, as the plot's gonna take a little while to thicken. Other than that, enjoy!  
  
Note: Sadly, I do not own Jack Sparrow, or the Pirates of the Caribbean, or Disney, or Disneyland (that would rock my socks). I am but a poor college student with a dwindling checking account and a crate of Top Ramen. Please don't sue me.  
  
Without further ado...  
  
Chapter One  
  
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who lived in a land of  
  
Ugh...  
  
A long time ago, in a land forgotten to the ages, lived a maiden so fair it would break a man's heart to look upon her.  
  
Arrrggghhh!  
  
In a place not so far away, in a time close to now, there dwelled a hideous wench alone with her cats.  
  
In a fury she ripped the third beginning from the leatherbound notebook and hurled it as hard as she could out the open window. The breeze off the sea kicked up and sent the gauzy drapes fluttering, as if it were a hungry monster begging for more treats.  
  
"I can't keep this up," she muttered softly to herself, flipping to the front cover. "I only have so many new page beginnings left.  
  
Here I finally find myself, forsaken to the sea. The richest treasure known to man is yielded now to thee.  
  
Scratched in faded ink, red and reeking of ancient berries. Twenty words, no explanation had been her dogma for nineteen years of drifting aimlessly through life. The only thing she knew about them were that they were written by her mother. For nineteen years they floated around her head, an endless search for the meaning. True, they could be just a silly rhyme scrawled down for amusement. But why would she have asked, demanded with her dying breath, that they be entrusted to her? No, the woman hadn't been lacking in any sort of luxury. Any number of the diamond collars, emerald rings, or golden pendants that had long been frettered away or claimed by The Steps could have been mentioned. Yet this was what she'd treasured, what she'd left.  
  
"The richest treasure known to man," Tabitha murmured, the words flowing off her tongue for the millionth time as she stared off into space. "Is yielded...now...to thee..."  
  
"Ta-bi-THA!!!" The screech sent her jolting up from her chair, angry footsteps rocking the shells and scattered trinkets that decorated the sparse attic room. It was like a romantic story, the loathed daughter locked away in the attic, with only the gulls to keep her company. All right, perhaps it wasn't true. She had selected the third-floor room on purpose to avoid as much contact as possible with Devonny and Portia. They may have loathed her, but her father still doted upon her like a child, at least when he actually took leave from the sea to call Daemon's Pointe home. However, there truly wasn't any company worth keeping in Daemon's Pointe aside from the gulls. At least they got out once and a while. A heavy knock rattled the door, with such strength and ferocity the masses so underestimated in women.  
  
"Come in, Devonny," she chirped sweetly, shoving the book under her matress. Her stepsister entered in a huff, half her corseted busom covered in white powder while the other flushed an unbecoming red.  
  
"Where is it?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don't play stupid with me. You may be dumb, but you know what I'm talking about." The things these foolish men found attractive. Devonny's natural hair was confined into a flat nest upon her head, paving the way for an enormous white curled wig she'd insisted on importing from France. Her face was completely white with stark blood-painted lips and a puzzling black spot where a dimple or something of the less appaling sort could have been. Her icy blue eyes pierced everything she saw with greed and, at their best, apathy. And yet, every gentleman on the god-forsaken isle were falling all over themselves to have so much as a waltz with this creature! Every day more flowers, hat boxes, and jeweled trinkets were delivered to her chamber with attached notes of undying love that were discarded without a second glance. "The sapphire silk with the white lace bodice."  
  
"You mean my sapphire silk with the white lace bodice. It belonged to my mother, not yours."  
  
A smile curled across Devonny's faux lips, eminating a cruel sort of laughter as her eyes rolled back in exasperation. "Yes, well, your mother died and was replaced by my own fifteen years ago. I know you've never been one to keep up with the times, but nevertheless, it would be cruel to have her die in vain by wasting such a frock on a homey mouse."  
  
Tabitha lifted her eyes to meet Devonny's, staring back with resolve of stone. "I understand your frustration, Devonny. It must be so distressing rummaging through your mother's closet, and finding nothing suitable. You see, unlike his first wife, your mother came into this house as a whore."  
  
The frosty, confident glaze over Devonny's countenance shattered, and with a screech she lunged at Tabitha with all the force of a waifish girl strung up by a corset. The pair clattered to the floor in a violent ball of punches, hair pulls, and kicks. Devonny's sharp nails clawed at Tabitha's throat as she yanked her corset strings as hard as she could.  
  
"Girls, GIRLS!!!" An angry voice screamed from up above as hands pried them apart. Portia took her daughter into her arms, glaring over at her despised step-relation. "And what would this be about?"  
  
"Tabitha won't let me borrow her dress," she pouted, standing up with her arms crossed defensively across her chest. "She's not even going to La Danse de la Brume, but she still proceeded to fight me like a savage over it!"  
  
Portia squared herself directly in front of her, towering at a height reserved normally for the tallest of men. Her ragged ringlets were a sickening sort of yellow, like something bright and shimmery left in the sun's light for much too long. Lines ran like rivers into the valleys of her face, painted over and over again by smelly concoctions recommended by the ill-preserved town druggist. She reminded her of an old cat, scrawny and passed up yet still exploiting its tumultuous nine lives to wreak misery into whatever lesser creature crossed its path. Without a moment's hesitation her gnarled hand reeled back, and smartly drew itself across Tabitha's face.  
  
She reeled back, clutching her tender skin as it began to swell. "Where is it?" She demanded, advancing once more.  
  
"It is not yours, and it is not your daughter's! It is mine, and I will choose whether it will adorn your little harlot or not. You can't scare me," she affirmed, straightening her shoulders and glaring into the cold heart of her nemesis. "I'm my father's flesh and blood, and you are nothing but an inexpensive diversion! The only reason I fail to entertain him with the tales of your cruelty is because unlike you, I actually do care about his frail heart. I will go to La Danse de la Brume, and I will go in whichever of my properties I choose. Devonny can go in rags, for all I care."  
  
"Are you quite sure?" She glanced aside to see Devonny perched near the window, holding the leather book between her thumb and forefinger, much too dangerously close to the open space for comfort. In spite of herself she gasped, held back by her stepmother's unusually strong arms.  
  
"How dare you even touch that!!" Tabitha screamed, unable to hide the genuine fear in her voice. "Put it back!!!"  
  
"Oh you'll have it back at the end of our lovely evening," she said as she tucked the thin book within the confines of her bosom. "Now where is the dress?"  
  
Quaking with anger and abhorrence she slunk over to the sea trunk, undid the lock, and retrieved the paper-wrapped gown from its home. Devonny snatched it out of her hands with complete lack of reverence, sauntering smugly out of the room. Portia followed, stealing one challenging glance back.  
  
Once there were two of the ugliest women who lived underneath a treasure they would never, in a thousand years, comprehend. And they both died, at the same wretched moment, in a way so horrid I have yet to imagine it. 


	2. The Heiress

The room was just beginning to obtain that warm, fuzzy glow that just the right amount of rum would give it. Enough so you could overlook the shoddy company and bad drinks, but not so much that it was whirling and lurching with the tumult to make a hurricane look tame. Just perfect.  
  
The local swines seemed absent tonight, leaving the tavern to the will of a bizarre crew that had washed onto the rocky shores of Daemon's Pointe shortly before he had. A young lot, inexperienced to be sure. Still had all their teeth. You could always tell a green set of pirates by their teeth. And of course, being cocky was a game Jack constantly played, but these boys were extreme. By the way they swigged from their mugs you'd think they'd conquered the Princess of England's heart, pillaged the entirety of Europe, and made it back to the Caribbean in an hour on Zephyrus' breath and blessing.  
  
Most irritating, here he was, sitting plain in the light, clear as day for all to see. Not one, not ONE of these mutts had bothered to glance over, gasp in shock and proclaim, "look't there! That's Cap'n Jack Sparrow, it 's!" Was he perhaps blending in too well with this common riff- raff? That had never seemed to be a problem before...  
  
The rowdy noise fell silent around him, breaking him from his trance of thought. All of them were staring at a new arrival, a man dressed in shiny new gentleman's attire. Navy blue dresscoat with brass buttons, three cornered hat with ostrich plume, boots that seemed to illuminate with pride at their maiden trudge into this hole. One, two beats of shock, and they all broke into hysterical drunken laughter.  
  
"An' jus' where did ya get that getup, Artie Priss 'n Boots?" An amused, slightly elder slid off his chair, throwing an arm around his gilded mate.  
  
"I stole it from th' mansion on th' hill, I did," he proclaimed proudly, pumping out his chest.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"How else're we gonna get inta th' ball?" He inquired quizzically, as if answering a question as simple as "why do you breathe?"  
  
"Ya thought that we were all gonna go in an' charm 'er into the boat?" He threw his head back in laughter, shoving the confused pirate into the counter. "We're pirates! We're gonna bust in an' scare th' shit outta these stuffy fools, grab th' heiress an' go!"  
  
Cheers rose as the pirates rallied together, pushing Artie out the door as they prepared for their debut as the worst pirates the Caribbean had ever seen.  
  
So these ametuers thought they were going to get The Heiress. These neophytes, without so much as a vomit or blood stain on their boots to be proud of. But interesting.  
  
Very interesting, indeed. 


	3. La Danse de la Brume

Why Tabitha had decided to go to La Danse de la Brume was completely beyond her. It was to be held at Monique Damask's home, one of the majority of young women on the isle that had decided that she was not fashionable or stupid enough to take tea or sew with. What a pity, she thought with a sad sort of smile as she rummaged deeper into the chest. It had been several years since she had actually attended any of the elaborate balls that were thrown semi-annually by the town's wealthiest and most prominent households. No, not since Devonny had come of age and proven herself to be a conniving, wretched waste of a human being. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she always knew she would make some sort of comeback. Perhaps that was why she'd spent so much time and money creating this.  
  
Her hands closed around the thick fabric, and little shivers of excitement ran along the lengths of her arms and spines at the thought of finally wearing it. A dress she had designed herself, from its conception in her head to the sketch she'd made one long and boring summer. It was so unique and beautiful, distinct from anything that had been brought over by the merchant ships or created by the fashion artisans around town. Servants had offered enthusiastically to lend their talents into bringing it to reality, but she'd politely turned them all down. This was her creation. The fabric, the lace, every last stitch had been chosen and created by her hand. It was the deepest black created in a textile, pure black that seemed to soak up the light around it. No silk to shimmer and dance, no cotton to catch the breeze. Simply flowing midnight.  
  
The dress cut to a wide square neckline and pointed waist, accentuating the curves of her hips and exposing the creamy skin of her breasts. The skirt billowed out in a wide flare, cut like curtains in the front to expose an underlayer of baby pink. The same contrast piped along the boning of the bodice, the ruffles in the neckline, and in ribboned bows at the elbows giving way to wide and draping sleeves that fell against her fingertips.  
  
She'd had to wait months for enough pink piping to come into the shop, and was forced to redo the entire skirt after it fell flat on the right side. However here it was, frozen in time and completed to perfection, waiting for this golden opportunity to outshine Portia and Devonny.  
  
After the maid had fastened the back buttons and taken her leave, Tabitha sat at her vanity, gazing into the mirror. As tall as she always forced herself to stand, she felt a bit odd thinking about actually being at the ball. She didn't look like the other girls at all. They had spent so much time caking their faces, strangling their hair, training their bodies to mirror whatever London or Paris dictated. There was something distinctly animalistic in the reflection she stared at, exotic and distant. Her skin was like that of a porcelain doll's, with only the slightest hint of pale peach eminating through. Her bright green eyes starkly stood out against it, as did her raven hair. Straight as plaits, it cascaded down behind her to rest at the small of her back. Her eyes were large and wide toward the center of her face, then narrowed out further to give them the shape of two ripe almonds. She always assumed that she must have her mother's eyes, since her father's were small and blue, like Devonny's. Kinder and softer, but certainly bearing no resemblence to the curious orbs placed in Tabitha's face.  
  
She shrugged, breaking the spell of ponderance that captivated her and sweeping her hair up above her head. With the stick of a pin it held securly in place and, satisfied, she gathered herself up and hurried down the stairs.  
  
"Oh NO, you can't be thinking of wearing that hideous thing!" Devonny cried, close to the door as the hoofs of the horses sounded the carriage outside. "We can't be seen with someone who looks as though they're mourning the death of a jester."  
  
"You won't be seen with me," she announced, brushing past them both. "I'll go alone."  
  
"And what, walk to Miss Damask's?"  
  
"Precisely."  
  
The air was cool and crisp, summer just waking up in its purgatory called springtime. Night had long since fallen, and the lampposts were illuminated with candles that drew every sort of insect known to the tropics. Which made, of course, for quite a party. Carriages hurried through, passing the closed shops and the taverns that never closed.  
  
Crossing the street in the quiet square, she noticed a peculiar gang of beraggled-looking sea men huddled together, laughing and swilling and paying absolutely no attention as she passed by. Daemon's Pointe rarely received visitors, and when it did, they were all well-received by someone.  
  
Oh well, she shrugged, continuing on. I'm sure the spirits will keep them entertained until they move on to the more exciting ports of call.  
  
Monique must have had quite the inclination to put so much effort into La Danse de la Brume, she thought as she entered the enormous hilltop mansion. In the front room, holding the staircase and entryway, streamers wound around rose garlands from ceiling to floor. An entire orchestra, or as much of one as could be assembled here, gathered in the ballroom. Normally even the fanciest parties sported just a few strings and pipes. Tables lined up from one end of the wall to the other, brimming with decadent foods. Ignoring the crowds milling over tedius introductions and mindless chatter, she made a beeline for the refreshments. The girl must've been announcing her engagement to Sir Somebody or something, as she clung like a stubborn barnacle to the side of a pompous looking man in military attire, introducing him to every guest she could get her hands on.  
  
Devonny had already made her appearance, and was twirling around the dance floor with some young man as a horde of others clustered together in a sort of line on the side. A few other couples joined alongside them, lost in the lively music, but most just looked on in envy at Devonny and her admirers. Perhaps, as they continued to monopolize the center of the floor, the crystal chandalier would come tumbling down and crush them beyond recognition. One could always hope.  
  
She turned her attention back to the food, filling her plate with as much as the delicate china could hold. Cheeses, biscuits, ham, fruit pie, cake, salmon, grapes... she grinned mischeviously to think of her total lack of corset. Most of these girls couldn't take a sip of wine without bursting.  
  
"Excuse me," a voice interjected with undeniable annoyance right behind her head. She whirled around to confront a servant not directing at her, but at a very bizarre man picking at a crepe. Her jaw nearly clattered onto the floor, for she had never seen someone so... so... eccentric. His clothes were faded and worn, a far cry from what anyone would label acceptable for being even within a mile radius of the Damask residence. A tattered cornered hat crowned a head of messy dreadlocks and braids, interwoven with beads and bobbles and whatever else he had come across that seemed to have struck his fancy, right down to the braided tails of his beard. His brown eyes, surrounded by heavy coal, snapped away from his dessert to confront the disruption. "You are not supposed to be here."  
  
He furrowed his brow in mock contemplation. "No, now you see, that's impossible. I'm a guest."  
  
"A guest?"  
  
"A guest!" He flashed a gold-toothed smile, bobbing down in an odd sort of arm-flailing bow.  
  
"You are a guest of Miss Damask?"  
  
"He's my guest," Tabitha broke in, astonished at her involuntary words. They both stared at her in equal bewhilderdom. "He's my, ah, cousin."  
  
"This is your relation, Miss McGovern?"  
  
"Yes, and I would appreciate if you'd stop interrogating us and allow us to enjoy the party," she spat back, sending the man feebly scurrying away.  
  
"Now would that be first cousin or second cousin, my dearest..." The man inquired, blocking her path down the line by leaning flirtatiously against the table.  
  
"Oh please," she rolled her eyes, reaching around his arm to retrieve an eclair. "If you don't mind, I'd love to spend the rest of the night basking in the glow of this wonderful party in peace."  
  
"Peace, eh?" He contemplated, running his fingers along his cheek. "Now, I wouldn't count on that, love."  
  
At that moment, the sound of shattering glass and gunshots sent the ballroom into a panic. Women's screams nearly drowned out the brutal noise crushing from around them. The orchestra skittered to a hault as people spun around, completely baffled, like chickens with a wolf in the yard. Wild looking men with swords and pistols seemed to swarm in from everywhere, bees to a hive. Through the windows they jumped, shooting whomever they could aim at. People crumpled to the floor as the marble tiles leaked rivers of crimson. Many headed for the entryway doors, only to find more attackers waiting for them.  
  
In that same terrifying second, the man's arms flew across her waist, yanking her along as he headed for the doorway. She screamed, kicking at his feet and shins as his grip wound tighter. "You'll thank me later, love," he muttered as he made his way casually through the blood and death. In an instant Tabitha saw Devonny fly by, mounted on the shoulders of a burly man, flapping her arms desperately as if attempting to take flight. Her wig had fallen off, and flecks of blood were splattered across her white powdered complexion. My book! She still has my book!!  
  
"Move out," he demanded as he came to the blockade at the entryway. "This one's mine."  
  
"Yers fer what?" A frightening-looking giant growled.  
  
"Yers fer what? What do you think, for what?" He shouted back, pushing aside without further protest.  
  
A knot twisted in her stomach as his words sunk into her comprehension. Panicking, she made every physical effort she could to free herself from his locked grasp. "Take me back there, right now! I'd...I'd rather die than be your..."  
  
"Free pleasurable company?" He offered. "Now you're just cheapening my chivalry. C'mon love, not so far now." 


	4. Proposition

Hey ya'll, 'tis me again ^_^ I'm really pumped about this story, it's actually going, like, good! And I will finish it, yay! So here's another chapter with more on the way. Reviews are very much appreciated. Thanks!  
  
"Yer gonna have to tie this one," the chreton advised a chubby hand on deck. "She's a kicker-jumper sort 'a girl." The ship was beastly, a huge old thing that was magnificent in its own bleak way. Every fixture, every board, up to the sails and Jolly Roger flag was doused in pure ebony. If she'd been in a better mood, she would have marveled at how well she coordinated.  
  
"You BASTARD!!" She screeched, struggling vainly as he bound her hands behind her back. "This is kidnapping, do you understand? You'll die once you're caught! Swing! Hang!"  
  
"Little bit o' a pessimist too, eh?" The burly fellow added, clutching her arms carefully yet firmly from behind. The strange man examined her quizically, his chestnut brown eyes watching her like a crazed animal in a pen. Not taunting, not anxious, just curious.  
  
"This is the worst possible mistake you ever made, Mr. ... Mr. ...."  
  
"CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow, love," he bowed, that same ackward little bob that he'd been oh-so-charming with at the ball. Perhaps, she thought begrudgingly, she was the one that had made the worst possible mistake.  
  
"Should I run 'er up the mast 'er just throw 'er in th' brig?" He inquired to his captain, a hint of genuine confusion lingering in his tone.  
  
"Let's show 'er Le Suite de Grande, shall we?" He grinned, enough nerve to shoot a conceited wink of his coal-covered eye at her as the shipmate struggled toward the large paned doors at the end of the deck.  
  
"That's a good lass, atta girl," he coaxed before finally plopping her down in the darkened room, locking her inside before she could protest.  
  
An eerie sort of peace settled down around her as the floor began to gently rock with the sea, up and down in a rhythm that felt as natural as the constant still of the land. Orders were barked and men ran hither and thither above and around, but they seemed distant and far away from her now, in this lightless, unfamiliar cell.  
  
One evening. One bloody, ill-conceived evening had left her entire world in something worse than tatters. Worse than death, for all she knew. Why did pirates kidnap little girls from parties? To scare them into minding their mothers? The sea's rocking turned her stomach to sickness at the notion of these rough men, passing her around like a good bottle of rum.  
  
A blazing orange light cast a ghostly illumination across the foreign room. Rather large, especially compared to the quarters she used to visit her father in. On the other side, across from the locked doors, was a wall consumed by windows with a cushioned sill running from one length to the other. One other door remained at the right of her, likely not leading far. An unmade four-post bed, with a mountain of wadded blankets detracting from the elegance of hand-carved mahogany. A matching table with velvet chairs held piles of used dishes, empty glass bottles, and candelabras burned down to the quick. Burgundy drapes, curtains, carpet, pillows, and walls may have been the products of bold design or, perhaps, some forgotten massacre. Maps in unreadable languages were tacked randomly about without frames or care. One section, to the right next to the window wall, was organized with slight reverence. A display of flyers, printed and sent out to the masses announcing handsome rewards for the capture of Jack Sparrow...a weak grin twisted along the corners of her mouth as she noted that they had failed to precurse it with "Captain." Like trophies they stood- kidnapping, robbery, commandeering, impersonating a member of the cleric...  
  
Her eyes flickered over to the window, and a horrified gasp escaped from her throat. The entire island was completely engulfed in flames, stretching high into the sky as they coughed out streams of smoke. The rocky isle became smaller and smaller as they moved away, but the fire only seemed to grow.  
  
"You're welcome, love."  
  
She whirled around, her heart racing with the chronic state of surprise the night had condemned her to. She hadn't even heard him come in, which was strange considering the massive boots and accentuated swagger of his walk. He plopped down on one of his velvet dining chairs, hoisting his feet across the table and knocking a pile of silver plates to the floor. "You're gonna have to excuse th' mess, I don't have th' pleasure of entertainin' many gent'lwomen aboard m' ship." From the folds of his grimy vest he produced a silver flask, took a long swig and gazed out the windows. "I knew this'd be a bad raid, what with those novices in th' bar, out t' prove to the entire Caribbean how big 'n scary they really are. They'll have a great tale now, retirin' in Tortuga to a whorehouse an' keg. 'Ever seen that charred li'l rock south o' Port Royal? Yes, we're the ones that torched it.'"  
  
"Pirates in Daemon's Pointe?" Tabitha thought aloud, puzzled. "But there would be no reason for it. Daemon's Ponte barely crosses the mind of the British Navy, let alone plunderers. There's nothing worth the trouble and risk of destroying an entire island to gain."  
  
"They got their reputation, that's reason enough for a gaggle o' ametuer pirates," he shrugged.  
  
"And you." She shot a fierce glare at Jack, who leaned back and watched her fume like an audience at a theater. "What did you get?"  
  
"A pain in th' arse, it'd seem."  
  
"Then why did you bother to bring me here?" As much as the truth frightened her, she couldn't remain in this velvet-padded room, waiting for her suspicions to be realized. "What are you... what are you going to do with me?"  
  
"Never was one to revel in th' loss of a civilization. From what I saw, you were th' only one worth saving, dearest cousin." Shaking the last drop from the flask, he retrieved a half-empty bottle from under the table. "Well, currently we're set to arrive in Port Royal 'n a few days. Have you got any family that wasn't on th' isle o' th' damned?"  
  
"M-my father."  
  
"Well, there we are. We'll send out word to yer father, while you holiday with some quality pompous arses, and all shall be good in th' world as we make our way toward th' Ambrosia Coast to see a man 'bout a mast."  
  
She stared at him, gawked, as he toasted to himself. No ransom? No slave auction? No carrying of his bastard child? What kind of pirate captain was this? "You mean, you're not going to go after the attackers?"  
  
"We're hardly th' avengers of th' open sea, miss." His words were slightly slurred now, as his wild gestures flew around more irratically with every sip of the vile liquor.  
  
"But they...they took something of mine, and I need it back!" For a moment her mind damned Devonny, but if the book had been left in the house, it would have surely burned beyond salvage with everything else at Daemon's Pointe. Good fortune was so often twisted. "Surely you'll at least encounter them soon..."  
  
"Probably not."  
  
"I...I don't think you understand," she stammered. "It's the most important thing I own, and that damned girl they carried off had it stole it from me."  
  
"An' what was this all-important treasure o' yours that's so valuable, you're willing t' go against yer impeccable upbringin' t' employ th' assistance of a gaggle o' pirates?"  
  
"It's a book," she said, sinking down into the chair across from him. If only these dirty dishes could travel back in time and retrieve their former contents. It oddly occured to her that she never got the chance to indulge into the hors d'ouerves provided by the late Miss Damask.  
  
He laughed, a throaty chuckle given enthusiasm from the mounting spirits. "You're gonna have t' do better 'n that, love."  
  
"A notebook from my mother. It had her writing in it, a strange poem. I've yet to figure it out, but I must recover it." She glanced up to see Jack's chestnut brown eyes locked on her own, the rum bottle still in his hand.  
  
"What was yer name again?"  
  
"Tabitha McGovern."  
  
"Well, Tabitha-"  
  
"Miss McGovern, Mr. Sparrow," she corrected sternly. No matter whom she was consorting with, she would not fall beneath standard.  
  
"TABITHA, CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow has reconsidered yer proposition and welcomes ye most wholeheartedly t' the Black Pearl." 


	5. The Coming of the Third

Hi again! Everyone here in the dorm is up and studying for finals, but I only have two more and they're really easy (kinda), so I wrote yet another chapter *sweatdrop*  
  
Ahem! Before getting to that though, I'd like to engage in some shameless self-promotion. If you're a Legend of Zelda fan, be sure to check out my other fanfics. Hime Hi is really long, I know, but I'm really proud of it ^_^ Anyways, just wanted to get that in there. Sorry. On with Jack! *drools*  
  
"Don't get yer hopes up, Jack," he said to himself as he caressed the worn wood of the wheel. Wood like this was one of those rare things that actually got better with each sweaty grip, each rough steer. Hands constantly polishing and sanding it down to buttery perfection. "Writin' strange poetry down 'n books- women do that sort 'o thing all th' time."  
  
Subconsciously he found himself staring down at the newcomer on deck, who had perched herself atop an old crate and sat now, still as a statue, captivated by the sea.  
  
What a strange one, this Tabitha McGovern. She was quickly proving herself to be the enigma of his Women of the Vast Universe theory. Through years and leagues he'd encountered hordes of the fairer sex, in all shapes, sizes, colors, ages, and ranks in the scheme of things. And yet, from the most distinguished lady to the most vulgar prostitute, they each fell into one of two categories- the Swanns and the Sparrows, as he'd proudly dubbed them.  
  
Elizabeth Turner, back before she settled into marriage and became boring, was the textbook Swann. Noble, occasionally intelligent, loyal to a fault. They'd go to great lengths to avoid a pirate's company, even if it meant throwing themselves off a cliff to save their integrity. That is, unless they found some practical reason to exploit a buccaneer's resources, in which case they'd tag along and pout, disgustedly, the entire time. A strong one like Elizabeth would stand up to him, the lesser ones just cried in polite lament. Bloody prude rum-burners, the lot of 'em.  
  
Then there were the Sparrows, or bad actresses, as it were. You brought a Sparrow on board with minimal protest as she batted her lashes, measuring up the whole of the crew. Completely vain creatures, they assumed that every man around would break their own necks to ravage them. As if it were that hard. The'd jump into bed after scarce an evening of playing hard to get. The world, to them, was a little island called Me. And no, it wasn't just the trash the tide turned out from Tortuga. Some of the most honorable gentlewomen in all the Caribbean had turned out to be pure Sparrows through and through.  
  
Yet, as hard as he tried, he just could not place Tabitha in one of the categories. At first glance she may have seemed a Swann. Fighting tooth and nail from the ransacked mansion, she would have dove overboard and swam back naively to her island and a host of hells she'd been brought up to never imagine.  
  
But she was not in the least bit noble or loyal or sacrificing. Her companions, friends, and family had all met bloody ends in a blaze of fire and tearing metal, and she barely raised so much as an eyebrow. She didn't seem either bothered nor enthralled when the concept of 'consorting with pirates' came in to achieve her ends. And, may Zeus sink the Pearl, he could swear there was less rum in the cabin since her occupancy.  
  
Would he be forced to add version three? The question was, how freely did the Tabithas spread their legs?  
  
"You'd get a bett'r view up here, lass," he called down, cupping his hands to ward off the deafening wind. She looked up with her emerald eyes... dazzling things. Paired against that raven hair... yes... something familiar indeed.  
  
"I didn't know I was invited." She walked stiffly up the narrow ramp of stairs, her hands still tightly bound behind her back.  
  
"I hardly think you'll be requirin' bondage any further, love," he pointed out, nodding to the railing. "If you jump, it'll save me a rotten trip to Eden's Rock."  
  
"Well I thank you wholeheartedly, Mr. Sparrow, for your permission," she rolled her eyes, rolling her shoulders back in a muted stretch. "Unfortunately, as you may see, I am not currently capable of freeing myself in this current state."  
  
"Ah. Well then." He turned around, removing the long sword at his side from its sheath.  
  
"You're going to use THAT?" She yelped, springing back.  
  
"Well I'm sorry I don't 'ave scissor hands. Now turn around love, an' don't be scared. I've done this a million times." Pursing her lips together she squeezed her eyes shut, slowly wheeling away on her heels. Without effort the blade gnawed through the flimsy rope, leaving her soft, apricot hands and curious attire flawless. "First time's a charm, eh?" A leery glare shot his direction, but his smile proved a quick antidote. "Well now that yer not m' prisoner anymore, why don't ye go make yerself useful, eh?"  
  
"What, you don't have enough underlings to scrub the deck for you?"  
  
"No, no, I was thinking... oh, I don't know," he contemplated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Sing some high pitched song, 'er skip around. Give this boat a fresh dose o' maiden charm."  
  
She didn't answer, but from the corner of his eye he caught an amused grin break across her face. So that WAS possible. Good to know. 


	6. Food for Thought

When Tabitha re-entered the captain's quarters, she found the dusty tornado of dishes completely removed to make way for an elegantly set dinner basking in the soft glow of restocked candelabras. The bed was made with tight and even creases, displaying a deep scarlet duvet with gold embroidery and plump pillows encrusted with glass beads.  
  
Jack was seated almost chivalrously, with his legs propped against an adjacant chair versus the tabletop. He munched idly on a fresh green apple, and nodded for her to sit. She rested across from him, surveying the meal before her. Never in a thousand years would she have guessed that pirates ate so well, However, she reminded herself with the slightest hint of a grin, you are in the company of 'Captain' Jack Sparrow. Fish in beds of ripe vegetables, ambrosia salad, bread and French cheeses, an entire roasted turkey, and a thick sort of broth smelling of simmered spice.  
  
"Water?" He offered, lifting a pitcher.  
  
"Wine, if you please." His large chocolate eyes flickered with astonishment, but he generously filled her silver goblet without a word. She took a long, thick gulp of it, marveling at how it burned and coated the insides of her throat and washed a kind of calmness over her.  
  
"If it's ladylike inhibition you're needin' to rid of, I'd wholeheartedly suggest th' rum," he broke in, shaking one of the many stockpiled bottles temptingly toward her with an emphatically confident smile.  
  
"I admit I haven't had your acquantance long, Mr. Sparrow," she said, barely lifting her eyes from the scoops of food she heaped upon her plate, "but as inconceivable as it may seem, not every female within a one hundred mile radius wants to be ravaged by you."  
  
"Well, dearest cousin, not ev'ry male y'encounter wants t' ravage ye." The golden crowns of his teeth shone as he caught the insult unintentionally smacking across her face. Her scowl averted onto the floor as she washed down another swig of liqueor. "Though I do wonder, Miss McGovern... where was said chivalrous lad as ye became a damsel 'n distress?"  
  
"Excuse me?" The words squeaked out a little too high-pitched, and a little too loud for what she would normally exude. With a blush she covered her mouth as a hiccup rose to her mouth.  
  
"Y'know, th' knight in shining armor, or pompous ass in Th' King's red. All ye girls 'ave one."  
  
"...Us girls?"  
  
"Rich girls, with all yer teeth an' not so very fat. Frequentin' parties, that sort o' thing." She realized with numbed surprise that he hadn't so much as touched his goblet the entire time, and simply watched her in amusement as she took the liberty of refilling the glass.  
  
"Oh," she snorted cynically. "Nice theory, though. Just because you're of means and teeth doesn't mean you have gentleman begging to court you."  
  
"Don't tell me they were all goin' after that scrawny wigged rat."  
  
She laughed, throwing her whole head back and letting it fill the entire space. "That would be my sister, the most-"  
  
"-beautiful girl at the ball?" Completed Jack, a striking wisdom in his voice. "Novices, th' whole lot of 'em. And there they are, sailin' to Eden, still sure they've got th' heiress in tow."  
  
"The heiress?"  
  
"More wine?" He offered up quickly, diverting the subject.  
  
"Jack, you still haven't given me a satisfactory reason as to why you're helping me," she pointed out. "I may be a stupid girl from a rock, but I have heard enough of the world to know that no true pirate is going to go two feet out of his way to recover someone's heirlooms unless there's quite a payoff at the end of the tunnel. What do you know of my mother?"  
  
He lowered his face and leaned in close to her, so that she could smell the distinct musk of worn leather and sea breeze that enveloped him. "Have I e'er given ye any reason not t' trust me?"  
  
"In not yet twenty four hours, Jack?"  
  
"Just answer th' question," he coaxed firmly.  
  
She sighed and leaned back, crossing her arms across her chest. "No, you haven't."  
  
"Well then, you can believe me when I say I never knew yer mother. Or at least who I'm assuming is yer mum." He abruptly stood from the table and, with one swift yank, tore the velvet duvet from the bed and arranged it on the floor. "Th' intoxicated carriage awaits, m'lady."  
  
"But aren't you going to tell me about her?" She cried out, getting up after him and stumbling in spite of herself. He kicked off his boots, and without thought or shame, lifted the windblown white shirt and vest over his head and tossed them to some unseen corner of the room. Try as she may, she couldn't stop herself from sneaking a peek at the dark tanned flesh daytime clothing concealed. His rippled chest, smooth and sleek with shadowy little hairs, was marred with dark scars that were healed but not forgotten. Only on rare occasions had workers stripped to their bare bodies on the island, laying out cobblestones or working on houses. She'd only seen them from a distance, glistening with sweat in the sun as she practiced her demure mannerisms and made great show of becoming enchanted with any minor spectacle on the other side of her vision. Never had the reality of man been so close, so...intimate. Slipping into the blanket he lifted his hands behind his head and stared up at the low ceiling serenely. "Wha... you're sleeping on the floor?"  
  
"It's most proper, I can assure ye that."  
  
"Oh, but I can't...it's your bed, after all."  
  
"If ye insist," he said, leaping back into the lusciously large bed. Kicking herself she nestled into the comforter, twisting to find some sort of position that didn't fully exploit the pain of the floorboards.  
  
"So?"  
  
"Yes'm?"  
  
"What about my mother?"  
  
"Not tonight, love. It goes against m'code." His eyes snapped back open, and he lifted his hand above his head in another irratic gesture. "No messin' with a drunken woman, an' that includes with 'er mind. Unless she's gettin' paid." He rolled over to face down at Tabitha mischeviously. "Ye in need of funds, Miss McGovern?"  
  
"Good night, Jack," she sighed, turning over and letting the liquid settling in her stomach lull her to sleep. 


	7. The Story Unfolds

The rickety little boat struck something, a rock perhaps, that made a hideous scraping sound as it sent the crew lurching forward. It was so dark in the cavern, even with the flickering torches they pressed ahead to shed some sort of forsight along the unfamiliar path.  
  
"Get out," the captain commanded, hoisting a foot onto the sharp landscape. "An' bring 'er 'ere."  
  
Rough hands yanked much harder than necessary at the ropes binding her hands, dragging her body against the scraping rocks without the luxury of footing. Her frizzed hair had long ago fallen away from its confines of pins and poufed wildly around her head. The fine blue silk was soaked to the bone in dirty seawater and fell in tatters amongst her shivering figure. Halting in a semi-circle her keeper raised her at his arm's length, so that her bare toes barely met the ground.  
  
"Is this it?" A voice behind her asked, and the fires all drew onto the gaping stone wall before them. Expecting nothing of this hell, she let out a soft gasp as her eyes adjusted to see a primal-looking portrait of a woman etched deep into the rock. Ancient, rotting, yet hauntingly beautiful. Her eyes were peacefully closed, her mouth open sweetly as if sighing. Locks of hair drew out around her, curling up and framing her perfectly.  
  
"Eden," the captain breathed, stepping closer to the engraving, completely enchanted. His callused hand ran the length of her eyelids, her angled nose, the crevaces of her lips. It was the only thing she'd seen him handle without complete contempt.  
  
As suddenly as he'd slipped away he snapped back, tearing out the damned little book he'd discovered nestled between her breasts. He held it not an inch from her eyes, opened to the first page. The torchlight accentuated his hideousness- skin whiter than snow, despite facing the sun's glare head on each and every day. Not one eyelash, nor brow, nor hair on his head remained, or maybe never existed. The only feature that stood out were eyes so dark, they seemed to swallow everything around him. No emotion stirred in their depths, not even hatred or cruelty. She shuddered knowing they were upon her, his bluish lips rasping sour breath that made her nose curl in disgust. "Read it," he demanded.  
  
"Here I finally find myself, forsaken to the sea. The richest treasure known to man is yielded now to thee."  
  
The entire congregation drew in their breath, all waiting, yearning in restless anticipation. The captain's frightening eyes closed, turning away to observe the carving. Was it to spring to life? Turn to gold? Destroy them all?  
  
A few moments, an hour- all concept of time evaporated as she dangled at the will of her captors. Finally, a timid voice broke through the silence. "Why di'in't it werk?"  
  
They lulled into feverish hushed debate, the arctic breeze of panic wrapping around them. In that crushing chill some grip of reason inside Devonny snapped, and she wriggled furiously. "I told you, I said I had no idea what that bloody book is! It doesn't even belong to me!"  
  
The captain whirled around, his eyes ever wider and locked directly into her. "What?"  
  
"I stole it, you rash fool," she grinned, fighting a tickle of laughter rising in her throat. "From my sister, who you burned alive with the lot of them. She's dead!" Her cackle exploded, wrenching her neck back and forth. "And now all you can do with that stupid book is wipe your ass with it!"  
  
The crew erupted in desperation and dismay, but the captain still stared squarely into her without any shift in expression. "We di'in't kill th' lot of 'em." The noise screeched to a halt, and a large pirate with long, wavy black hair hobbled forward. "There was one oth'r girl, got hauled off."  
  
"Hauled off?" Exclaimed the captain brutally. "How could anyone've escaped?"  
  
"The pirate cap'n, th' oth'r one," he went on. "I saw 'im when we were at th' tavern. Long, stringy hair wit' beads an' the like. An' the strangest sorta moves he made, bobbin' around- but th' ship 'e had docked in th' harbor- beautiful thing, black 's the night wi'out a moon."  
  
"Jack Sparrow." He lingered on the name, breaking his disciplined frost to bring unabashed contempt into his words. He seemed lost for an instant in some private realm before concentrating once more on Devonny. "You will describe this girl for us," he demanded, producing a thin dagger from the confines of his jacket. "In ev'ry detail until we are completely satisfied."  
  
"Ugly little thing," she spat. "Black hair that fell long down her back, light, lifeless skin... green eyes. Strange, big green eyes."  
  
"That's th' one!" The man cried, jumping up and down with excitement as if solving a great riddle. "He carried 'er off inta th' night outta th' party. Stopped 'im I did, but 'e jus' wanted a fresh wench."  
  
He stiffened, and hastily shoved the book back into his pocket as he swiftly strode back toward the boat. "Set a course for Isle de Mureta for supplies. I want a lookout on each corner of th' ship, day through night, keepin' an eye out for th' Black Pearl."  
  
The crew began to file back into the boat, with a small cluster lingering with the captor. "An' what about the girl, cap'n?"  
  
"Kill her."  
  
***  
  
Waking up without a hangover was like Christmas. True, it would be better if you could pull off drinking all night and then wake up with blessed renewal, but the world just wasn't perfect like that. Stretching his arms above his head he let out a gigantic yawn, then swung his legs over the side of the bed to rest on the cold floor.  
  
"Well 'ello there." Beautiful woman curled at his feet. That was a Christmas coupled with a Birthday and a victory. Tabitha slept soundly, surely not as lucky as he was when she finally awoke. Her flaxen hair spread out across the boards below her in rays of darkness, soft and shiny like only a woman's hair can be. He leaned over so that his face hovered above her own, taking in the melancholy scent of lavendar that radiated from her perfect skin. Her cardinal lips were drawn into an upturned "O" that gently drew in and out with each heavy breath. They were so full and lush, overtaken by those emerald orbs in consiousness, now veiled in thick ebony lashes. To simply touch them, taste them... The idiots. The legendary beauty of Daemon's Pointe was right under their noses, and they hauled off a painted whore.  
  
Jack had never held anything truly exquisite. Exquisite and breathing, anyhow. There were pretty girls, acceptable ones, tolerable ones, ones that acquired one of these traits after a few rounds. He left and forgot not out of cruelty, but simply because he was not compelled to do anything else.  
  
Tabitha compelled him. Stirred a feeling of desire that he had never known, one that did not lie on the surface of lust and wantonness. Rather he wanted to strip away the grace and pride that held her out at arm's length. To possess her.  
  
With a start she lurched to attention, the eyelids flying open to greet him. A high-pitched screech sent him jumping back, raising his hands into the air in earnest innocence. "Just makin' sure you were still breathin', love. Frightful cases o' spontaneous death poppin' up."  
  
She cradled her head in her hands, much too overtaken with the pain to question him. "I'm...I'm going to vomit," she mumbled, squeezing her eyes shut once more.  
  
"No vomitin' on m'ship," he said sternly, lifting her up and lying her unprotesting body along the bed. She sunk into the feather matress, looking all the better for it. "Over th' railings, always over th' rail." Throwing on his clothes he turned to leave misery be, but she yelped out in protest.  
  
"Wait, Jack! You have to tell me the story now!"  
  
He curved back, glanced out the window and sighed. They could last a few more minutes without him. "No time like th' comatose." He pulled a dining chair over toward the foot of the bed and sat, facing her. She seemed still very sleepy, but struggled to stay awake, like a child waiting to be tucked in for the night. "All right. Well, I'm not great at tellin' stories... but, accordin' to th' legend, there was a band o' women who dwelled along th' Nile in Egypt. They were said to be so enchantin'ly beautiful that t' look upon them was t' condemn yerself to a life o' worship. Daughters o' th' Queen Nefertiti some heard, no one really knows for sure.  
  
"Whatever th' case may be, they lived in riches. Swam in riches. Were up to their necks in 'em. Could've been gifts, could've been loot... no one's real sure. Well, anyhow. As Europe started t' grow an' spread, they began t' get worried. What if the French or th' Spaniards decided to waltz into th' desert that day an' destroy everything? So, after much deliberation, th' women decided t' pack up for th' 'mericas. They left on a long ship, loaded with all th' goods, solid gold. They sailed all th' way down th' Nile, around Africa, and through th' ocean to land in Eden's Isle in th' Caribbean. It was a paradise, until th' word got out. One mornin' they woke up an' saw a ship fast approachin' on th' horizon. They gathered up what they could, an' sealed th' isle with an enchantment t' protect th' treasure. Th' British Navy docked an' swamped 'em inside th' cavern, claimin' th' aisle in th' name of England an' demandin' the treasure. As they refused, they began th' massacre. However, there was one on board who felt an achin' empathy for 'em. Knew that plunderin' for riches was s'posed to fly under another flag. Was able to save but one. A breathtakin' young maid with glitterin' emerald eyes an' midnight hair. He took 'er back home to Daemon's Pointe, started a family... but she caught somethin' or other, died. However, it was said that the incantation t' open Eden's Isle to th' treasure was with 'er, and she passed it on after she died. Legend had it that there was a beautiful maid of Daemon's Pointe, The Heiress, who held th' words an' the key. When th' words were spoken at the gates of Eden's Point from 'er lips, th' spell would be lifted an' the greatest treasure received."  
  
She was gaping at him, letting the poorly relayed tale sink in and settle into her heart. She remained silent as he got up and left, letting the doors close snugly behind him. 


	8. Veiled Truth

The mind-crushing pain throbbing above her temples all but disappeared as Jack hastily made his exit. The greatest treasure... what on Earth had mother left to her? What fortunes untold would cause so much bloodshed and toil?  
  
"Here at last I find myself," she whispered. The book did not hold the key. Those other pirates had it at their disposal, and yet only her own breath could lift the spell.  
  
'Shall I tell Jack?' She thought suddenly, sitting up in the soft folds of the bed. If Jack knew the simple lines were locked soundly within Tabitha's memory, they would have absolutely no reason to confront an adversary. Off to Eden's Rock they'd be, and the reward would be theirs.  
  
'Or Jack's.' Would he share the bounty of the mystery? 'Of course not, you fool,' she scoffed at herself, standing up to face the day. 'He's a pirate. As soon as he has what he wants and you're no longer of use, he'll kill you ten times before you can say parlay.'   
  
But this was Jack. Jack was different, wasn't he? He cared...  
  
She bit furiously down on her lip, flushing from the tips of her ears to the pads on her toes. Such hope and sentiment had rooted down inside without her even realizing. She could not deny the lust fluttering in her stomach, tightening as he drew near. However, the attention and humor that rained upon her in his presence seemed to feed a hunger that had starved the life out of her for fifteen years.  
  
"He needn't know," she ruled aloud, approving her reflection in the mirror with a fluff of her hair. "Not yet."  
  
As she opened the cabin doors to the deck, the sun glared in her eyes. Crewmen idly set about their chores and paid little attention to her presence. They seemed nice enough, in a scary, grubby sort of way. Were they real, plundering, heartless pirates of the variety her father described? In her naive mind, she could hardly imagine them using their swords for anything worse than carving turkey.  
  
Her crate sat next to the wheel where Jack stood, absorbed within the realm of his compass. She sat upon her reserved seat, glancing over the horizon to see the thick highlight of distant land. "What is that?" She asked, jumping up to lean over the railing, as if the few inches were vital in bringing her closer to shore.   
  
"That'd be the Isle de Murenta," he mumbled, far more concerned with his work than the childish questions of his guest. "New hub o' business, exclusive pirate territory. Quickly replacin' Tortuga as th' place t' be."  
  
"Are those other pirates going to be there?"   
  
"Likely not. If they've managed t' get to an' miserably leave Eden's Rock already, they're more likely t' be retracin' their steps back t' Daemon's Pointe t' see if the real Heiress is perhaps shiverin' in ashes by th' grace o' heaven. But we'll see. Maybe we can at least get a name t' look out for. It'll be good for ye too," he added, giving the ship a sharp tug to the right, "get a chance t' walk around an' practice some o' that skippin' you've been refusin' us."   
  
"Get off the ship?!" She exclaimed, as if he was suggesting she take a walk among the waves, "that can't be a good idea."  
  
"Nonsense. If yer there 't all they'll assume you're one o' them."  
  
"I am lacking in effects," she sighed, suddenly missing what she'd lost. The fine dresses imported or inherited, hats she collected with curious passion, seashells that recreated a miniature shore across her shelves. Simple, stupid, replacable things that now seemed priceless and hopelessly lost.   
  
"Mmm. We'll be needin' some kegs, after all ye went through last night," smiled Jack connivingly.   
  
She blushed, remembering with embarassment the wine she drank last night with abandon. She hadn't meant to make such a spectacle of herself, but the drink felt so wonderful as it spread its tingling warmth throughout her body. It calmed her, clouded her worries and made everything seem very foggy, yet strikingly clear. "I...I must have made a fool of myself. I apologize."  
  
"Not 't all. Most wouldn't be able t' roll out o' bed the day after a night like that. Y'impressed me, Miss McGovern," he winked, a thrill he could not have realized. "I must admit, ye have been breakin' my expectations of ye through an' through."  
  
"Oh?" She straightened her back, staring at his lanky figure with stirred curiousity.  
  
"Well, not seemin' t' give a rat's ass what happened t' yer nearest an' dearest back 'n Daemon's Pointe," he pointed out, raising his hand to flambouyantly count, "not yet a single faintin' spell... th' crew even has a runnin' bet as t' whether there's actually a corset under that strikin'ly unique gown o' yours. An' the fact that yer surrounded by pirates, your fate restin' within the palms of our grimy hands, hasn't as much as roused a whimper out of ye."  
  
She grinned, fully satisfied in his observations and feeling an exhilerating sense of pride at the prospect of being intruiging to the personification of intruiging. "The only family I had in Daemon's Pointe was my stepmother, Portia, and her daughter Devonny. Portia, along with everyone else, is dead. And I only regret that it's not of my own hand." She could feel Jack's surprised eyes upon her as she imagined Portia's putrid hair shooting sparks, rolling around on the ground to no avail as she plunged into the gates of Hell. "To see her writhing there, completely at my mercy...for once, I decide HER punishment. The penalty for fifteen years of torture."  
  
"That bad, eh?"   
  
"She loved nothing more than to beat my skin raw." She squeezed her eyes shut, as if her eyelids could protect her from the sore memory of childhood and youth. "We had servants in the household that did all the chores, but she would charge me to do things- little things, pouring tea or fetching this or that. She and Devonny worked as a team. Devonny's job was to make sure I messed it up. Push me or trip me, or whatever worked best at the moment. When I failed, she'd have Devonny bring her favorite riding crop from the shed outdoors. She'd strike me over and over again, up and down my back and legs, until welts rose and oozed pus and ached so badly I couldn't stand. And the laughter... she always laughed the entire way through, as it was the greatest amusement to her. When I got bigger and put up a better fight, she took to tethering me down so I couldn't budge."  
  
He had turned completely away from the wheel, and now kneeled at level to her, his face shrunken into concern. "An' this father o' yours... ye don't seem t' 'ave that much animocity toward him, so-"  
  
"Father's never home. He's a fine member of the British Navy, and when my mother died he knew I would be alone. He wanted so badly for me to have a family when he couldn't be there. I don't know how or why Portia fell into his lap, but she did, and whatever charm she had she used to convince him that she would be the finest mother in the world. I couldn't tell him of her cruelty, it would break his heart. He could not survive knowing his good intentions had caused me so much pain." She glanced down at Jack, who gazed up at her with an emotion she could not identify. It glittered with hatred and reverence, and his knowing stare left her feeling unsettlingly exposed. "What? Haven't you a ship to command? Don't waste your time grieving over my miserable, now obliterated past."  
  
"It's most interesting," he reasoned aloud, "day in an' day out like that, absolutely stuck... that breaks a person. How did ye ever manage to stay in one slightly sane piece?"  
  
Perhaps she should have laughed, but she found the question most considerable. "I can't say. I just don't know."   
  
"Land ho!" A crewman shouted from up above as people began scurrying all around, making preparations to land. It was a makeshift, shanty sort of place, with stalls and tents prominent above real buildings or establishments. A number of other ships docked alongside, frightening looking men hurrying out and others coming back reeling with great hauls or cursing bad luck.   
  
"Civilization awaits ye, Miss McGovern," he announced, offering a hand. "Let's find ye a new dress. Ye need t' shed that skin."  
  
****NOTE*****  
  
Okay, I know this chapter is kind of short and not much happens either... however, it's pretty necessary to make the forthcoming chapters make sense. So just hold on there, and I hope you enjoy it ^_^ Review, s'il vous plait! I love reviews, they make me most happy. 


	9. Initiation

Isle de Mureta's premiere marketplace was unlike anything Tabitha had ever seen or heard about. Packed with every shoddy character you could cram on a desolate island, all yelling and drinking and grabbing for whatever they could get. No one dealt in treasure or plunder, no. This was not the place, their clientele was much too savvy to be swindled into such frivolous trinkets. Each merchant, or ranting lunatic with a keen bartering sense, was dealing in something mildly practical.  
  
First to catch her eye was practically square in the middle of the alley street, right in the front so you had to practically sidestep around it to get any further. Not to mention get a very good look at the raised platform crowded with a line of women. Shoulder to shoulder they stood, grinning sincerely and gesturing toward the gawkers in the crowd and passers by. 'FOR THE LONG TRIP', a banner announced above their heads. At the beginning of the line were young girls not a day older than she, each wearing an outrageous outfit blooming with feathers. There was a little blonde one with a yellow feathered dress that was slit high up on her thigh, and she jumped up and down like a child. Next to her was a bright redhead in stunning ostrich plumes, with fuller breasts that were concealed ever-so-slightly by a neckline cut near to the waist. Further down the line the women got older, fatter, and uglier until the last woman on the very end, a shriveled old woman with hardly any hair left on her head, beckoning with her long, gnarled hands. A plump, sturdy-looking woman stood in front of the crowd, urging them whole-heartedly, growing ever-redder in the face.  
  
"Th' sea grows e'er colder an' love e'er farther, but fer a mere 500 pounds ye can be th' pride o' yer crew an' take Letitia back wit' ye fer a night!" The yellow canary girl whipped an oriental fan out from behind her back, and began furiously beating it in the air while shaking her chest for the applaused delight of the crowd.   
  
  
  
"How much t' keep 'er below decks fer a full voyage?" An inquiry shot up from the crowd.  
  
"Ten thousand pounds!" Letitia boasted proudly. "An' a full new wardrobe, plus a dinner break 't six."  
  
Laughs and cheering rose up from the crowd as Jack urged her along with a nudge. "Gatherin' trade advice?"  
  
"I find it fascinating," she remarked, adhering close to Jack's side through the main street. Cures for scurvy, wind charming sails, explosives upon guns upon cannons up for grabs on all sides. "They seem so enthusiastic about their work."  
  
"Aye, but fer a Mureta wench like that, 's not work's much 's a hobby." He stopped in front of one of the only solid, standing structures erected in the town. A packed tavern, of course. He removed a gold coin from his pocket and slipped it into Tabitha's hand, saying "ye'd be best not t' keep company in this sort o' place, dearest Miss McGovern. I'll find ye... why don't ye make yerself busy an' get a new dress like ye wanted?"  
  
"Alone?!" She cried, clutching the money in her palm. Under normal circumstances she'd object to such charity, but he was likely counting on multiplying it tenfold once they recovered the book and arrived at Eden. "But Jack, they're-"  
  
"You'll be absolutely fine." He gave her a strong pat on the back, much less affection than she would have liked. "No one's gonna think of touchin' the presumed wench of Captain Jack Sparrow."   
  
***  
  
Ah, how he'd missed a good, true pirate bar! The Black Pearl hadn't stopped at Tortuga and months, and the squeaky-clean establishments in Daemon's Pointe and Port Royal were boring at best. Here, all the sweaty, drunken, loveable kin gathered to tell incoherant stories, pick up pleasurable company, and make arrangements for the next adventure. It wasn't just the alcohol that lifted the spirits. It was the energy, enthusiasm, and harsh understanding from the lot of scallowags around you. In a pirate's heart, it was home.  
  
"Captain Jack!" A familiar-sounding voice shot through the crowd, creating a clear path as men and their women scooted back to make way for an honored guest. The bartender, welcoming with open arms holding a pitcher and soiled rag, smiled happily through a growing beard and widening frame.   
  
"Gibbs!" He shot back with equal shock and excitement. They smacked each other upside the back in the age-old fashion, and without hesistation he filled an enormous stein of rum as Jack seated himself at the counter. "I wondered whatever became of ye after ye abandoned the Pearl."  
  
"Moved on t' more fittin' endeavors, as 't were." The light in his face dimmed as the acquantance took a strong gulp, his faulty memory kicking back into gear. "What brings ye t' Muerta anyhow?"  
  
"New matter of leverage. She's not here," he quickly added as Gibbs' eyes darted around the room.   
  
"She?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
"So Thoreau was right," he realized in a hushed whisper, much to the bewhilderment of Jack as he quickly set down the drink. "Ye do have th' Heiress."  
  
"Thoreau?" He repeated, running his hands along the thin plaited tails of beard. "Since when has Thoreau been welcome in Muerta?"  
  
"Since he's been commandin' a pirate ship, that's when."  
  
"What ship?"  
  
"Th' Lucifer," he said in a low, raspy voice with his signature flare for over-dramatics.   
  
"Ne'er heard of it."  
  
"Aye, few have. It's been wrapped up in its own pursuits." He glanced around, ensuring that everyone within earshot was much too enthralled with their own debauchery to mind the conspiring of two veteran pirates. "Thoreau spent years with the British Navy, flyin' under their flag while treasure huntin' sure 's any o' the commonest buccaneers on this isle. He was a notable failure after he finally landed 'n Eden twenty years ago. But he jus' didn't give up. He knew there was mus' be some way t' get to th' treasure. In any legend o' that calibur, there always is. So he kept his ears open. Always listenin'. Guess 't wasn't too hard, no hair t' muffle them ears o' his. An' the story began t' change. Supposedly th' last o' th' women made 'er nest at Daemon's Pointe, died, an' left an incantation t' open th' wall to 'er daughter. Then 't all began t' come together. He'd ne'er realized that McGovern'd actually married th' woman. They'd all but slipped 'is mind after leavin' the Navy an' slowly puttin' together a ransack crew o' his own. They went through an' destroyed Daemon's Pointe, an', ruthless novice 'e is, he sent his crew out t' do all th' dirty work for 'em while he took a shore leave in Tortuga. 'Find th' most beautiful girl at th' dance, and bring 'er 'ere alive,' he commanded. Well naturally th' greenhorns snatched up some prissy whore export from England, not th' exotic offspring o' ancient Egyptian royalty. It seemed a li'l odd t' Thoreau, but she was the spittin' image o' McGovern an' th' book of th' incantation was on 'er, e'en so. But when they took 'er to Eden's Rock an' she read th' words, nothin' happened. Not a bloody thing. Right 'fore they slashed 'er throat she described the real Heiress, who was last spotted bein' dragged off by a dreadlocked, swaggerin' pirate t' a ship th' color o' midnight with black sails t' boot."  
  
"So they HAD heard of me!"  
  
"They were 'ere jus' last night, tearin' up through 'ere, inches short o' spillin' blood. Demandin' t' know where Jack Sparrow an' th' Black Pearl were. Everyone told 'em the god-honest truth... haven't seen 'em fer months. But he's gonna be after ye, Jack, an' yer lit'l prize, too."  
  
"Well there's no way they could catch up to the Black Pearl," he shrugged, resuming his remaining rum.   
  
"Ye know as well 's I pride can sink a ship soon's a cannon."  
  
***  
  
"Loot fer a Lady," Tabitha read on the poorly-scribbled sign that was tacked above a shack-like shop across the street. The entrance was veiled in tapestries and silk sheets, with a tarty looking dress adorning a manequen next to the door. Ah, the resting ground of all the good lady's looted dresses, she smiled as she timidly stepped inside.   
  
The door slammed shut behind her, shoving her into an incredibly dark room with only a few slits high in the wall to let sparse sunlight in. Dresses did not hang up nicely or fold neatly, but rather were strewn about in piles among hats, parasols, and undergarments- some clearly that hadn't been worn for half a century. A wiry man sat upon a stool, running a small knife up and down a coarse rock. He did not look up, even as she began rummaging through the heaps searching desperately for something that would somehow make do. An ivory flowered print that folded out to fit someone twice her size, a host of low-cut gauzy things that were in no shape or form 'Loot fer a Lady'.  
  
"Excuse me," she inquired, looking to the uninvolved shopkeeper. "Would you happen to have any recent arrivals from, oh, Daemon's Pointe?"  
  
He lifted his head to stare at her, a creepy smile curling across his lips. Unlike Jack he hadn't bothered to spring for gold teeth, and the few that remained hung off his gums like gnarled bits of food. "Don't get too many ladies shoppin' 'ere. Travelin' alone?"  
  
"That's really none of your concern," she fumed bluntly, her fingers turning to fists at her sides. "If you don't have anything suitable, I'll take my business elsewhere."  
  
"Yer not goin' else nowhere." Like a monkey he swiftly and agily leaped onto the counter, balancing on his skinny ankles and poising the sharpened knife above his head. With a shreik she whirled around to run, only to feel the larger body land like lead atop her back. Ensnaring her arms in one hand he held the knife against her throat with the other, so close that heavy breathing would draw blood. "That's a good lass," his voice hissed into her ear as her muscles loosened, giving in to surrender. He let her hands fall out of his grip, and still holding the slicing metal to her flesh, snaked his hand up the side of her hip to rest below her left breast. She could feel a faint shudder from him as he let out an aching breath, inching up to slip his fingertips below the neckline.  
  
Without sparing a second to think Tabitha tore at his right arm, enough surprise granting her the opportunity to pry the knife from his hand. Growling he lunged toward her, and shooting her fist forward the blade sunk brutally into his stomach. She gasped as he moaned, sinking to his knees and slumping onto the floor. Streams of scarlet began to form rivers along the boards, staining the soles of her shoes. 'I've killed,' she realized simply, as if now she were the member of a new elite that could sink no further. Surely no one would miss the rat, or so much as bat an eyelash against her word, but the fact that another human being's life had ended at her will was terrifying. A fluttery feeling danced in her stomach, not unlike the effect of the rum.  
  
Hastily she gathered an armful of clothes untouched by the mounting blood, and nearly fell out the door to see Jack, slightly less nervy after his trip to the tavern. "Ye sure do know how to make a franc stretch," he remarked, examining the dwarfing mountain of articles.   
  
"I killed him," she whispered, a cackling giggle rising from the depths of her throat. She didn't know whether to let it spill laughter or tears. "The shopkeeper," she explained, addressing the confounded expression that turned Jack's kohl-lined eyes to slits. "I killed him!"  
  
"I'm sure ye had yer reasons," he shrugged, continuing nonchalantly past the street to the dock.   
  
"Every woman in the Spanish Main isn't just some whore these men have at their disposal," she fumed, hoisting the loot over the edge of the boat as she tumbled inside. He turned back to her, and his face changed. Almost a panic, and it was frightening. She'd expected him to be in too deep a stupor to register much, and even when mildly alert he never seemed off-poise enough to appear...  
  
"Did he..."  
  
"No," she blushed, her eyes falling to the deck. "I killed him."  
  
"But he tried."  
  
"...Yes."   
  
He exhaled heavily, shoulders slumped as his hat fell over his expressive eyes. "I don't normally underestimate," he admitted as the crew began to hoist down the sails. "In fact, I never do anything stupid. I can't understand why now, all 'f a sudden, things 're changing. I should've been much more careful with ye, Miss McGovern. 'T won't happen again, I can promise y' that."  
  
They both stood there in absolute quiet for what seemed an eternity, holding back as the Black Pearl yearned to sail freely into the horizon. Jack apologizing...sorry...regretful... what decorum was called for in this? "T...Tabitha," she finally let ring. "Miss is silly, really... and I always forget Captain anyhow..."  
  
His face lifted and he beamed over at her, and in that moment of golden teeth and unspoken peace, she felt a comfort only achieved when one let go of stuffy manners and governed with the heart. "Well," at last he said, turning to take his place at the wheel, "was there a lot o' blood?"  
  
  
  
"Oh yes! A plethora."  
  
"Interesting." 


	10. A Placid Precession

Author's Ramble: Three months?! It's been three months since I've updated?!?!? That's terrible. It's gone so fast! College makes time go by in strange and scary ways. So anyways, I was watching Once Upon a Time in Mexico, drooling over Johnny Depp, and I was like Hey! I never finished The Treasure's Heiress! I need to do that!!! So I hope all my readers haven't abandoned me *sob* I haven't abandoned you! I still love you all!!  
  
Review, please! I need to know if anyone's still reading this thing. And without further ado... it's time for a Jack-view chappie! W00t!!  
  
"Jus' let Th' Heiress waltz around Isle de Mureta like she's at a sewin' circle," Jack mumbled to himself, gripping the wheel until his knuckles were completely blanched. "Brilliant, Captain Jack Sparrow."  
  
He found it difficult to even look at her now, the walking and breathing, beautiful reminder of his pinnacle stupidity. Every time he caught a glimpse of her brooding eyes, her shining hair, or her curving figure shivering on the deck, it sent his stomach lurching and his eyes squeezing shut. If they were closed tightly enough, perhaps the memory would erase from the banks of his mind.  
  
Damn it!! Why the hell did it matter what happened to Tabitha McGovern? Of course she was the Heiress, and her loss would mean that Eden's treasure would be lost to eternity. So? There were a million other stories floating about the sea, leading to enough loot for a thousand generations of pirates. On top of THAT, there were enough women to fill each night of a lifetime.  
  
Yet it did matter. It mattered more than anything else ever had. The mere realization that she was even slightly compromised by his carelessness was more than he could bear. Nothing occupied his thoughts, waking or dreaming, except for the pale enchantress. She was an insanity to be reckoned with.  
  
Piracy and women. Curse the fools that mixed 'em.  
  
***  
  
"Th' Black Pearl's been spotted several miles ahead," the helmsman reported, standing at attention before Thoreau's desk. "If we increase our speed, we should reach 'em before sunset."  
  
"Maintain course," he said flatly, neglecting to raise his eyes to meet the lowly subordinate as his ostrich plume scrawled notes across the log. "When darkness falls, make sure not even a candle is left aflame. We must be absolutely dark as we approach the Black Pearl."  
  
"Should we load th' cannons then, cap'n?"  
  
He stood slowly, his back to the man as he stared out the window, his veiny hands clasped behind his back. Behind the British Navy jacket dyed a rusty red from its bath in human blood. "Sparrow will follow us to Eden's Rock, and we will be there to greet him. I won't be having him dying before seeing what all he lost." 


	11. Rum's Truth

After leaving Isle de Mureta, Jack became very strange. Well, very strange compared to the weeks previous. She scarce saw him anymore at all. He'd come inside to sleep long after she'd finally fell victim to slumber, despite her best efforts to meet him. When her eyes fluttered open to greet the sun and to catch Jack, he'd already be gone. She felt a bone- crushing chill surrounding her, reminiscent of the life on Daemon's Pointe. The life of Portia and Devonny and hating every moment, something that had almost disappeared from her memory after being kidnapped by Jack. No matter how boldly the sun beamed down at high noon, or the number of plush blankets she covered the bed with, the cold remained and numbed.  
  
She'd come out of the captain's quarters every day, and every day Jack would be in the same place. Perched at the wheel, staring out beyond the horizon and refusing to meet her gaze. Even the crew seemed to keep a far distance from her, circling about her location in the most ackward sort of way and avoiding her eyes. When she'd raise her voice or make a motion toward them, they'd scurry ever faster past to disappear to whatever meaningless destination they had waiting at the moment.  
  
"Miss McGovern, McGovern miss!!" Tabitha whirled around from her perch on the bow to face Pip, the potato peeler who lived in the kitchen. He was a tiny, slightly slow little man who wobbled on his right leg, and was so short it would be worth inquiring to whether he was ten or thirty. It was the first time she'd heard her name in days, and she found she had nearly forgotten how to speak as her dry mouth choked on her words.  
  
"Y...y...yes?" She stammered, letting out a hoarse couch.  
  
"Well, as y' know I was down peelin' th' potatoes an-"  
  
"Pip!! What d'ye think yer doin'?!" A stern-looking man boomed behind him. He jumped to turn and face him, as did she. He caught one look at her imploring face, then tore his eyes back to the shipmate. "You heard Jack."  
  
"I did?"  
  
"Yes, ye did."  
  
"When?"  
  
"A few days ago," he said impatiently, his glare deepening the wrinkles in his weather-worn face.  
  
"Really? What'd he say?"  
  
"About Miss McGovern?"  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"No one's to be mindin' Miss McGovern then, eh?" He said slowly, drawing out each syllable of the words as his patience grew thin.  
  
"Oooooooh," Pip gasped, scurrying away as the man followed.  
  
She could feel her face burning, though she couldn't decide whether to be hurt or indignant by Jack's commands. Like a rare vase. Keep away. Had she somehow disappointed him? After the incident at the shop, perhaps he'd realized something. Maybe he'd overestimated her. She'd proved to be quite the damsel in distress by walking right into a percarious situation, no different than the many other stupid girls he'd met. Before he'd seemed so enamored of her, and now she was less than human. He'd spoken of how intruiging she was, how curious... now, she was nothing.  
  
An image of life flashed into her head, life after the Black Pearl. Tracing around the Caribbean on Father's ship, acting the demure lady, marrying Commander Who-Gives-A-Damn and retiring in Port Royale to a voluptuous mansion filled with servants and luxury, dead and buried buried in children and formalities and obligation. Was that what she was? Despite all her work and wishing to become more, was that her destiny? Once upon a time there was a gentlewoman who walked and breathed and died without a fight?  
  
That's what Jack sees.  
  
The sun was beginning to set, melting violets and crimsons into the sea. The sparkling waves seemed to mirror the imminent stars, so peaceful and timeless as her own internal world spun into mortal turmoil. The ship began to quiet down, with only the most vital hands remaining as everyone else disappeared below decks. Might as well head in myself, she decided with a melancholy inner dialogue.  
  
As she entered the captain's quarters, she was shocked to see Jack seated at the table, surrounded by a half-dozen empty bottles in addition to the almost-empty one swinging percariously in his left hand as he swung it forward to greet her. "Tabitha! Come on in 'ere an' take a seat with ol' Jack."  
  
"Jack...?"  
  
"I've got all kinds o' stuff 'ere, y'know." She'd missed that smile so much, the gleaming teeth and sparkling eyes. It was intoxicating simply looking at him now, the capricious captain whom had all but vanished to her. She'd never seen him so incredibly drunk; his arms flailed around every which way, even when no words were escaping his mouth. His eyes shifted jerkily from her to the rum and to other random facets of the room, not sure what was what or what was worth trying to focus on.  
  
Silently, enticed by shock, she strode to the table and sat across from him. He shoved a brimming glass of orangeish liquid toward her, nearly knocking it over on the rough wood. "Cheers, love," he toasted to himself, drowning the rest of the bottle's contents without ensuring that Tabitha had even touched her own beverage.  
  
"Jack, are you all right?" She asked, than instantly reprimanded herself. What sort of a question was that? He wouldn't know the Black Pearl from an English palace.  
  
"Y'know love, fer a while there, I wasn't, y'see?" With a flick of the wrist he shattered the nearest green bottle, but went on gesturing feverishly without notice. "I di'in't know what to make of ye, e'er since I dragged ye out o' that bloody tea party at Daemon's Pointe. An' it's been drivin' me out o' my mind."  
  
"Because I'm not what you'd hoped, right?" She shook her head, and with a quick motion let a mouthful of the foul drink wash down her throad to quench the aching thirst of misery. "I'm just a prim and boring English lady, just like the rest."  
  
"Lady?! Where'd you go gettin' an idea like that?" He laughed with abandon. "No, I knew that weren't true always... not a wench, not a lady, just an enigma. An' so what do ye do with an enigma? Hell if I know. I can't figure out what to do with ye. Or I couldn't. But now," he stood up suddenly, ackwardly, nearly tripping over himself as he stumbled to reach the space right before her, "the world is so clear, like there's been a fog. This great fog, an' it's jus' faded right away with th' afternoon. Th' afternoon of very good rum. An' in the lovely afternoon of good rum, I know exactly what I want." And without a moment's hesitation Jack's lips were molded against her own, those expressive hands weaving and grasping the long midnight hair right below her neck. She made a muffled yelp of surprise, but his embracing kiss tore it away to release something deeper inside of her. Something primal that had been stirring for weeks, a hunger that could never be satisfied by the wonderful food or rich liqueor or impending treasure. Her eyes folded down and her hands clasped Jack's rough face, drawing him in ever closer. It felt like ripping into the flesh of a ripened, fresh fruit after longing for a taste on a hot summer's day. Feeling the sweet, tangy juice dancing across your tongue and awakening every sense in your body to an alarming new height.  
  
"Jack," she murmured in a long, drawing breath away from his caress. She stared at him, dark kohl-lined eyes still closed, drifting back and licking his lips. For her taste or that of the rum, she couldn't tell.  
  
This isn't Jack! She suddenly realized, her swelling heart drawing back with sudden alarm. Yes, she craved Jack more than she could now ever deny, but she wanted Captain Jack Sparrow. Not a drunken lout that might as well be kissing a renegade salmon than a lovesick girl. It was what she wanted, but not like this. Not reeking of rum and apathy. "Jack...?" With a low moan he fell backward onto the floor planks, snoring loudly. "Jack, I should go," she sighed, her throat becoming tight as tears welled up in the back of her eyes. She flew out the doors and made her way as far as she could from the scene, to the very tip of the bow. She still burned for the warmth she felt with him, but she couldn't live a lie. The next day he wouldn't even remember anything, would probably be angry and sullen all over again.  
  
"But if he really does feel that way without inhibition," she mused aloud, staring out at the dead black sea, "perhaps he simply needs a sobering realization. If tomorrow, I tell him I love him-"  
  
Suddenly a cold hand clamped around her mouth, and the entire world dimmed to the darkness of the night. 


	12. A New Accord

A sequel!? GAH!! I'm trying very hard to just finish this thing! Thanks so much for leaving comments! I'm so glad I haven't been forgotten! It fills my heart with happiness, as does this tale which is extremely fun to write. So on with the story!  
  
The creaks of a speeding ship greeted her as consciousness returned, rocking her aching body back and forth, back and forth. A hazy calm embraced her as she opened her eyes, surprised at the absence of mahogany and burgundy. /I  
  
Her entire body jerked forward as her vision adjusted to the dim light and foreign room. It was bare and colorless, with unstained furnature without lining or decoration. She had been lying on her back facing a low ceiling from an unrelenting stiff mattress, now gazing forward at a heavy set of doors. She teetered as she tried to balance without the benefit of hands, tethered securely behind her, and her head ached and blurred.  
  
"Do you know what happens, Miss McGovern, when you let your hired help do all the work?" She tossed to the right to meet a cool, emotionless face punctuated by arctic eyes. Without sparkle nor malice, they still forced you to gaze and shiver as they bore straight through you. A soft gasp escaped from her throat as he stepped closer to the edge of the bed, his skin almost colorless and so thin you could see the networks of spidery blue veins sustaining what appeared to be a completely lifeless creation. Not a single lash, brow, or hair remained as he removed his plumed hat, tossing it carelessly to a stiff chair. "When I entrusted my men to bring me The Heiress from Daemon's Pointe, they hauled nothing but an ugly, screaming wench onto my ship. I knew she couldn't be the legend, but..." he paused, removing a soft leatherbound book from the inner-folds of his dark jacket as he smirked down at his prisoner, "missed it, Queen of Eden?"  
  
Tabitha slyly smiled back, fighting the twisting fear that was gnawing at her insides. Lying at the mercy of this soulless, frightening monster. He leaned in ever-closer, hovering right over her as she struggled to distance herself. A sword and two pistols were attatched to his belt, which dangled now against the starch-white bed covering- shiny reminders of her percariousness. If only she could remember what had transpired! She remembered the thrilling kiss of rum, coming out to the deck... then, the world vanished into an abyss that could've been a moment or a lifetime. Yet she knew, no matter what hand she had been dealt, she couldn't let him see her sweat. If only she were able to make him believe she was slyer, somehow had the upper hand, her fate may not be so hopeless. "Not at all. You see, I have it memorized."  
  
"Memorized all up in that little head of yours?" He milled, twisting it around his spindly fingers. "Then why wasn't the Black Pearl headed to Eden's Rock?"  
  
"I..." Why hadn't she told Jack? He was untrustworthy? How astute, Tabitha. Let's just wait for a better pirate to come along. Oh wait... how could that have possibly gone wrong? "He never asked."  
  
A darkness settled into his toothy smile, which was within a breath of her space. "Neither did I." His right hand rose sharply, revealing the metallic glint of a dagger in the dreary light. "Do you give everything up this easily?"  
  
"Don't you dare touch me," she warned, trying to sink as far into the graceless bed as the knife tore down her bodice, revealing the thin flesh- colored undershirt. "I worked hard to steal that, you bastard."  
  
"Well I worked very hard to burn down an island, catch up with the Black Pearl, and kill five crew members for this." His putrid lips forced against hers, clamped shut as she swung her head away.  
  
"Get off of me, you filthy rat," she growled through her teeth.  
  
"I don't know what sort of gracious hospitality you were treated to on the Black Pearl," he flipped her back over to face him, any trace of good humor quickly replaced by impatient rage. "But aboard the Lucifer, you'll earn your keep."  
  
"If you, or any other lout so much as brushes up against me in a manner unbecoming to a gentleman," she said slowly, braving the face of wickedness against her very real terror, "I will not recite the poem for you. Kill me, torture me- I will not do it."  
  
He sat up, the vicious smile returning as he stared her down. "Waiting for Jack Sparrow to sail valiantly into Eden's Rock, save you from the evil captain, and sail you off into the sunset? Fine, I'll give him the chance to show up so he can live just long enough to witness the treasure he lost in my hands." The heavy handle of the dagger rose in the air, and she felt its smarting pain against her skull before slipping once more into unconscious oblivion. 


	13. Picking Bones

Hello kiddies, if you noticed or didn't, whatever the case may be, I switched the rating over to R because things are going to get a little...steamy ^_~ this is one of the last chapters, though! I'm suffering withdrawal already *sob* I've had so much fun with this! I hope you've enjoyed reading it so far.  
  
Tabitha nudged away for just a moment, emerald eyes still closed, breathily letting his name dance across her lusciously plump lips. She tasted of honey and life and flowers- some tropic summer escape that was so instinctively craved by him, he'd never seen it standing idly before him and now that it was realized, could never go without it again. She looked so divine in this moment, almost unearthly. Her loosened tendrils fell across and framed her delicate face, the faintest trace of a smile curling her mouth and creasing her crescent eyes.  
  
"Jack..."  
  
The eyes drew upen as he stared, and his heart hammered against his chest at the dimension of passion they unveiled. Not since his earliest childhood recollections could he remember the innate thrill of real anticipation that rose and shattered a cool and calculating exterior. It was unnerving, dangerous, and more exciting than any adventure or fortune a loveless sea could wash your way. His shaking hand reached up to brush the fallen locks away, but she stepped back from his touch. Without deteering from her grapple into his pupils, she reached behind her back and tugged at the knotted cords fastening the gauzy ivory gown together. Unbunching and loosening the fabric, until it just barely clung to the sensuous curves of her body. Slowly, teasing, torturing her delicate hands traveled forward up her stomach, grazing the delicious contours of her breasts, to her bare shoulders where the tenacious sleeves hung for dear life and stripped them away, the rememnants of the dress following.  
  
"I think e's comin' out of 't!" A deep voice announced, relieved.  
  
"Jus' throw on another bucket t' be sure," another added, and before he was keen enough to advise otherwise, the icy sting of freezing water sending him reeling forward with an aghast yelp. Dripping from head to toe he sat up, head pounding, every muscle aching. Ugh, what the...?  
  
"We were gettin' scared you weren't ne'er wakin' up," said bucket- wielding Pip, in the middle of a cluster around his bedroom floor.  
  
"Jus' a lit'l too much to drink 's all," he mumbled, stumbling up to his feet. The room was pretty much how he vaguely remembered it: empty bottles, broken glass, tossled chairs- save for one thing. "Tabitha?"  
  
"She's gone, cap'n."  
  
"Well bring 'ere in," he said sternly, collecting the little bits of dignity that had scattered like the shattered bottle about the floor. "I need to...ask...'er something."  
  
Their faces fell sullen, facing the floorboards as if choreographed, shuffling their feet uncomfortably. "She ain't jus' gone from 'ere, cap'n," the little potato peeler piped up once more, "she's been kidnapped right off th' bow o' th' Pearl."  
  
"What?!" No one, not even Jack himself, was custom to an unnerving outburst from the collected, albeit quirky, captian. The devil himself could've appeared off the port and threatened to cast the ship into Hell, and he would've just kept on steering.  
  
"Last night we 'eard an awful commotion up on th' deck, so we hurried on up- there was this awful lookin' man with' no hair an' these wild blue eyes," he described, jumping up and down with enthusiasm as he recounted the fateful story, "an' in 'is arms was Miss McGovern, all slumped o'er with 'er hair hangin' all o'er 'er face... I thought fer a minute she was dead! But then 'e jumped back into 'is boat with 'er, an' I doubt he'd go to all that trouble to haul a corpse off..."  
  
"Why th' bloody Hell didn't you try and stop him?" He demanded, hand instinctively going for his sword as he stared down the crew.  
  
"We did," said the hulking Rex, stepping in to defend the miniature buccaneer. "He single handedly killed five 'vus 'fore he escaped int' th' night."  
  
Jack's shoulders slumped forward, as clarity soberly sunk into his gut. It shouldn't have been the crew fighting and dying to save Tabitha. If he hadn't decided to drink himself within an inch of his life, she would still be here, nestled into the bed, with Thoreau's hideous cadaver sinking like lead to the bottom of the sea. This went beyond not being worthy of The Heiress. It went beyond doing anything stupid. With selfishness, he'd doomed her. "Who?"  
  
"Pete, Peter, Pipey, Sam, an' Stinky Pete." They removed their various hats and bandanas, standing silently in respect to the fallen. Jack followed suit, unwrapping the red scarf that held back his dark dreadlocks and covered the nasty gash from a nasty fight back in the 40's over a mast.  
  
"Good men, good men," he nodded, striding over to retrieve his worn blue coat from the chair and swinging it over his shoulders. "Anyone else in 'ere know a Mr. James William Thoreau?"  
  
"Some scurvy British Navy cap'n," Rex spat, re-adjusting the hat onto his scantly-white haired head.  
  
"Aye, 'til recently," Jack mused, his signature stagger carrying him to the door, where he paused to face them. "Thoreau 'as a score t' settle, e'er since we ran int' each other during a skirmish up near Cuba. Years back. There's this terrible sulfer stuff that bubbles up from a volcanic island 'round there, he liked t' use it t' torture whoe'er was gettin' in 'is way at th' moment. Men, women, children... he was an equal opportunity sadist. So when I caught 'im plundering a native isle under th' British flag, I gave 'im a taste of his own medicine."  
  
"'s that why he's so ugly?" Pip asked thoughtfully.  
  
"No, he was always ugly. Set course for Eden's Rock, full speed," he dictated, vanishing to the neglected deck. 


	14. Here I Finally Find Myself

The murky waves lapped onto the jagged shore, polishing each stone up like granite knives in the depths of the cavern. The growing fear in her heart distracted from the rope cutting painfully tight into her wrist. Eden's Rock was a tiny little island that grew out of the sea into a tall, narrow pillar-mountain. Without the benefit of shore, the only entrance was through the dark cavern leading to the coarse altar the rickety rowboat now glided toward. If the Black Pearl had been docked to meet them, she would have had no trouble seeing the gaping raven ship dwarfing the miniscule isle. Now here, in the belly of the cave, her eyes searched desperately for a swinging lantern, a cocked pistol- any sign that her pirate allies were waiting to orchestrate her rescue.  
  
Nothing. Not even a single fish splashed up to give her hope.  
  
The boat slammed to a halt against the boulders, and the men scurried out. The captain lifted her out by the arms, and she couldn't help the tortured moan escaping her throat as her weight dangled by her raw wrists. Just as she couldn't quelch the impulse to look up and see the clear pleasure brought to his features by her helpless reaction. "Walk," he commanded, though her bare toes hardly met the ground. As the torches illuminated the way, they shone to reveal a massive engraved slab of solid rock depicting the portrait of a demure, yet breathtakingly enticing woman. Her eyes were thickly shadowed, closed harmoniously in an etheral trance. Her long hair waved up and around her, a pillow to cushion a millennia of sleep.  
  
'Mother,' her mind snapped, instant recognition of a figure that had long since crumbled from pictoral memory into blurred, worshipped myth. Here she lay- her legend, her treasure- yielded now to thee.  
  
The grip sustaining her released, and with a screech her body slammed against the unmerciful ground. The captain stood before her as she clung to the shore, shielding her face with her tousled long hair. "Are you ready to recite for us?" He asked, mockery dripping from his patronizing tone, "or do you need a little reminder first?"  
  
Her head rose, glancing back and forth feverishly. "But Jack..." she stammered with geniune confusion as she rose shakily to her feet, peering over the leering crowd. "...Jack's not here to...to..."  
  
"Trying to back out then, are we?" Ruthlessly he unsheathed the sword from his side, letting it fall just close enough on Tabitha's neck to allow a nick's trickle of blood run down the blade to stain his fingertips. "You'll say it right here, right now," he dictated, drawing out each word as she shuddered against the edge. In this light the iris of his eyes dissappeared into the pupils, creating an abysmal pit of brutal ferocity. "Or else I'll allow the entire crew to fuck you on the rocks until you scream it out."  
  
"Now that'd result in some very scraped knees." The captain stiffened, tightening the grip on the crimson-stained handle.  
  
"JACK!!"  
  
The attention and light turned to unveil the unfazed Black Pearl buccaneer directly behind the vile captain, holding him hostage under his own glimmering sword to the back of his scant head. "Now what's say we make this real easy, eh mate? Let th' girl go, sail yer grimy greenhorned crew back t' whatever port they crawled out o' th' woodwork from, an' you go back to murderin' and plunderin' the civil way with th' blessing o' th' King. Savvy?"  
  
"Say it, you whore!" He roared, bringing his arm slightly back as if poised to slice.  
  
"Don't even think about thinking about sayin' it, Tabitha," Jack said steadily from the wayside. She glanced up at the unflinching captain, over to Jack, back again. Closing her eyes she swiftly landed a kick into the captain's fist, causing the sword to fly out of his hands and land percariously close to her side. Rolling to the side she grabbed the weapon, leaping to her feet with the agility only the highest dose of adrenaline can bring.  
  
"What the Hell, you stupid bastards!" The captain screamed, spinning back to face Jack with the second sword sheathed at his side, "stop her!!"  
  
"Didn't I e'er tell you about being stupid?" Jack sighed as the hulking crew closed in with their own daggers and swords.  
  
"You were too slow," she spat back, poising herself against the slowly approaching pirates. She hadn't actually used-or held-a sword before, but she'd seen some pretty decent things done before. A long time ago perhaps, but...  
  
She could hear the metal smashing as Jack and the captain hammered away at each other, and to her surprise the crew seemed just as captivated. Jack nimbly hopped from rock to rock, tearing at the captain who leered back and shot forward with aggressive hacks.  
  
'Escape...' the concept ran through her mind, her heart screaming for her to do something, anything to stop them. She interminnently creeped back from the crowd, farther and farther, thinking and thinking. 'He'll kill Jack...or Jack will kill him...then the crew will kill us... there's no way...'  
  
Clunk! Her back slammed into the moist granite, her fingers tracing the goddess's hands. "The poem!!" She gasped aloud, her mouth falling open as she spun around to face the enchantment. "Here I finally find myself, forsaken to the sea. The greatest treasure known to man is yielded now to thee." 


	15. Daylight in the Garden of Eden

Jack waited motionless behind a protruding boulder as Thoreau's rowboat trudged through the murky water. After leaving the Black Pearl, several miles out of sight at Reed Bay, in a cursed little raft, he'd been plagued with impatience and doubt. Would he make it in time? Would Thoreau make it at all? Tabitha had no idea what sort of audacious bastard Thoreau was. With her short fuse, she could easily do something stupid to set him off.  
  
Now, with the trembling but breathing figure within a few feet of his fortress, a heightened calm settled through his nerves. Her cream-colored gown, one of the spoils from Isle de Mureta, was completely gone, leaving nothing but a thin cotton undershirt and petticoat. Good, she must've found some way to fend them off. If the crew or the captain would've had her, there would be nothing left.  
  
She must have so much strength in those bones. She was shaken, he could see it as Thoreau yanked her on by reddened wrists. Yet she hadn't broken. Again he felt the guilt swimming up from the depths of his stomach, crashing into his heart. Enough of wicked stepsisters and burning isles and careless captains. Somehow, from this day until eternity, he would see to it that she never knew heartache again. All the wrong, he would set right for her. Whatever he had to do.  
  
The crew loudly clammored onto the small shore, obliviously passing the rock by. Their shuffling covered the noise as Jack unsheathed his sword, waiting for the opportune moment to strike...  
  
***  
  
Two golden pearls of light popped from the corners of the goddess's eyes; sleep sand from her lifetime trance. They shone for just a moment before her, as they split and spread to cover the entire lid. A pair of gleaming, star-bright eyes fixed into Tabitha before blazing in a burst of speed and iridescence, blinding her as she blinked back to behold the entire engraving illuminated by the supernatural light.  
  
The clashing of swords, the hum of the crew had all ceased as the gathered fixed themselves on the appiration before them. Not even a breath could be heard, as all held it in as if the slightest exhalation would send whatever spirit stirred awake skittering back into its immortal hiding place. As the entire portrait glowed, a rousing split could be heard cracking at the bridge of her nose. The infraction spread, producing a fracture from the top of the wall to the floor, which laboriously spread open to reveal a bright passageway.  
  
"Would someone kindly restrain Mr. Sparrow?" Thoreau broke casually, stepping away from the confrontation quickly as a half-dozen crew pulled their pistols on the off-guard Jack. Grossly outnumbered he dropped the sword, lifting his hands up above his head as they swarmed.  
  
The captain swooped her up roughly by the waist, dragging her alongside as he barrelled into the entrance. "Take the treasure!!" She cried, futilly thrashing against his lock of a grip. "Just take whatever you like, and let us go! Let Jack go!! Please, I'll do anything!"  
  
With a careless Thunk! she met once again with the ground, this time soft and inviting under her aching muscles. The cool scent of dewy grass filled her nostrils, and she realized she was indeed lying face down on a bed of sweet, luscious grass spanning the entire floor of the pillar- mountain. Sunlight streamed in from up above, casting everything in hazy daylight reflected off of streams of water creeping down the rock sides. Two trees reached up and blossomed toward the Heavens they could barely see, shading a bedlike rock platform layered in mosses and dainty wildflowers. Orchids and roses bloomed out from the ground in eerie harmony, with an orchestrated spontinaety that only nature's most loved gardens ever achieved. The color and light was overcoming, after festering so long in the dank cavern. The air was clean and fragrant, filling Tabitha's lungs as if for the first time.  
  
They stood, taking it in, for what could have been a moment, an hour, or a day. Finally a lone voice broke through the revered silence. "Where's th' treasure?"  
  
"Yeah!" Piped in another. "There ain't no gold!"  
  
"Th' damn Egyptians di'in't leave a single jewel!" Cursed the first, crossing from Jack's careful guard to dramatically kick at the natural altar. "They sealed this place off t' hide a pretty picture?!"  
  
"That's women for ye," Jack commented, leaning forward to bob his head in gesture, as the binding of hands left him impaired otherwise.  
  
"You!!" The captain fumed, whirling with knotted fists back down to her. "You conniving little whore, you tricked us!"  
  
"I...I had no-"  
  
"Silence!!" His right hand smashed across her face, knocking her back into the ground. He approached her laggardly, backing her behind a wall of disgruntled pirate legs. Her head and shoulders met with the resistance, and he stood above her, pale skin flushed a fiery scarlet. He reached into his jacket, removing a shining silver-plated pistol. He held it inches from her heaving chest, so close she could smell the loaded gunpowder. "You see, Jack and I are very different men. You may have single-handedly brought ruin to Jack Sparrow, but James William Thoreau will never be humiliated by a conniving woman."  
  
His fingers tightened around the trigger, and a deafening shot of death rippled and shreiked through the serene paradise air. 


End file.
